


Next of Kin

by Shadowesque



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-04-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 11:34:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1468003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadowesque/pseuds/Shadowesque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of death, Malcolm feels obligated to visit someone related to Hayes in person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Next of Kin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MeredithBrody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeredithBrody/gifts), [PinkAngel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkAngel/gifts).



Hoshi, thankfully, had not made any comments about the address he requested, but her face bore all the grief and understanding that any language could not have so deftly conveyed.  Malcolm had apologized for giving her a little more work before everyone was about to take some time off, well-earned, especially from her, but she had waved off his concern.  It was no problem.  And he certainly hoped that his visit would likewise be unproblematic.

People were going off to see friends, visit loved ones, taking time to recuperate from the terrifying experience of the Expanse.  And there were some who wouldn't get the chance.  He didn't _have_ to do it, of course.  There was absolutely nothing that made him obligated to, especially over any of the other MACOs.  But Malcolm stood in front of a quaint Ohio home, checking, double checking, triple checking the number by the door.  It was surprisingly picturesque as far as suburbia went, with a neat lawn and bright but not garish paint on the siding.  A little small, but maybe there'd never been a want for space.

There was even a mat, once he finally got up the courage to approach the door.  Worn well, but the family name was still legible.  If he had any doubts about the address left, they were gone in that instant.  It took a few moments more of nervous fidgeting, adjusting (and then readjusting) his uniform's zipper, the sleeves, until his hand finally reached out to knock on the door, as if even his own body were telling him to get it over with.

A few tense seconds went by.  The lock on the door popped, and an older woman looked up at him.  She was shorter by several inches with dark, greying hair pulled back into a long braid.  Likewise dark eyes peered at his uniform, and her surprised expression sobered, but to her credit, she didn't look unfriendly for it.

Malcolm cleared his throat.  "Mrs. Hayes?"

"Yes?"

"I...realize you must have gotten the letter by now."

She patted her hands on an apron tied around her waist.  "I have," she verified in a wary tone, anticipating more bad news.

"Ma'am, I know this is a little unorthodox, but--I'm Lieutenant Reed, ma'am, and I was your son's direct superior on the mission, and I felt it prudent to meet you in person to say--"

"Come in."

Malcolm came to a halt, caught flat-footed in the middle of his sentence.  "I'm sorry?"

She moved aside and motioned him in.  "I was just baking some pie, and if you're going to get into a little speech about my son, I'd rather do it in the comfort of my own home."  A soft but tired smile brightened her features.  "I don't want to raise some fuss outside for the neighbors to see," she added by way of explanation.

Malcolm couldn't argue with the wishes of a military mother and nodded, stepping in gingerly.  "Thank you, ma'am."

"Please, Chelsea.  I got enough 'ma'am's from your captain and General Casey lately."  She moved on into the kitchen area, and he followed a few steps behind, trying not to be rude but also taking in the surroundings quickly out of habit.  It almost felt like an intrusion even if he'd been invited in all the same.  "I admit, I didn't expect one of Archer's boys to come down in person," she said with something almost like a laugh but without all the honesty.

"These are unusual circumstances, I agree."  Malcolm stood in the doorway to the kitchen, and for the sake of having something to do with his hands, he stood at ease, cupping them behind his back while Chelsea Hayes went about clearing some of the cluttered countertops of rolling pins and used measuring cups and such, letting a fresh pie cool atop the stove.  "But I thought this needed a more personal touch.  Given how we worked together."

"And I appreciate that.  You must have so many other better things to be doing than seeing me."

"Nothing _nearly_ so important, ma'am."

"Ah ah," she chided, though she mostly kept her back to him.  "What did I just say, Lieutenant?"

"...Chelsea."

"That's better."  She threw a few spoons in the sink and, without much else to immediately do, came to a stillness.  Beats of quiet passed, and before Malcolm could continue on with what he'd come to say, she turned and smiled sadly, the wear of grief etched around her eyes.  "I could never get behind all that military politeness.  There's a time and a place for sir's and ma'am's, but it always felt a little...well, overly formal and stiff to me.  Oh--"  She was in movement again, but with her destination less clear.  "Can I get you anything?  Something to drink?  Go on, sit down.  You came all this way, the least I can do is offer my hospitality."

"I'm fine as I am," he insisted, but took a stiff seat at the table as indicated, straight in back and perched near the edge.  It was fine that she seemed to not know what to do with herself, and he could be patient.  She started listing off all she had to drink in the fridge for a while until she finally hemmed and hawed herself out, coming to take a seat opposite him.

Bashful wasn't a terribly good look on her.  "I'm sorry," she started quietly.  "We started making arrangements, but it still doesn't really...feel real.  Yet.  I always knew it was a _possibility_ , obviously, but you still don't actually expect the message to come."  She took a large breath, hands settled in her lap, and finally looked up at Malcolm properly.  "I've barely even given you any room to get a word in."

"It's quite all right--Chelsea," he remembered, though not without sounding forced.  "Nobody's expecting you to be fine.  And I have nowhere else to be."  Malcolm glanced away, licking his lips, regaining his courage and his train of thought.  "The Major--your son--was an integral part of our crew during this mission.  He and his team of MACOs performed to excellence and beyond expectation.  I wanted to tell you personally how much of an honour it was to serve alongside him.  He died in the line of duty, bravely, while rescuing one of our officers."

She nodded, looking empty.  "Jerry would never have settled for less than perfection.  The MACOs put that in him.  A lot of good came out of that training.  Not that he was ever a misbehaved kid," she clarified.  "I just think they brought out some of the best in him.  He was always trying to help me and be the man of the house ever since his daddy left a long time ago.  I just don't think he knew what he wanted to do with himself, and one day when he went by a recruitment office..."  Her shoulders shrugged.  "That was that.  I was always worried...but there's only so much that can help."  The ensuing silence was only punctuated by a passing car outside.  Her worry lit up her face.  "Did your officer make it?"

"Yes, she did, thanks to him."

"Did he--"  Her voice became small, and she cleared her throat.  "Was he in...pain?"

He wasn't sure how to answer.  The truth?  Or coat it?  The pause in answer seemed enough for her, and her eyes welled up.  "He was brave up to the very end.  Eager to get back to work despite everything."  She nodded absently, but the words did seem to help at least on the surface wounds.  "I am proud to have known him.  I wanted to let you know how much he meant to me."

Chelsea dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.  "Did he like it on the ship?  Did he like you?"

Malcolm blinked in surprise at the questions but wondered how honestly he could answer them.  He certainly had a good idea, but they hadn't really spoken about those kind of details.  "Admittedly, they didn't have the warmest of welcomes.  And the two of us butted heads frequently.  I wasn't very fair to him at the start, but, squids and sharks."  He took in her puzzled look at the expression.  "Navy and marines.  Always a rocky history."

"I think he tried to explain that to me once, but I don't have a nautical bone in my body.  Or a space bone.  I know Jeremiah isn’t--wasn't--always easy to get to know.  The job always came first.  But you saw his softer side, didn't you?"

"Yes...I think so."  'Softer' may not have been the word for it, but he wasn't going to argue semantics or technicalities.  There was definitely another layer to the man, to both of them, really.  "We eventually came to realize we were far more alike than we wanted to admit and that we were a much better team working together than antagonizing each other.  We settled our differences.  And I don't know how this mission could possibly have gone without him.  I don't know how he ever forgave me for the way I treated him, even with the excuse of frayed nerves, which is no excuse at all."  Malcolm shook his head incredulously.  Looking back, he'd been unreasonable with Hayes.  And maybe it was those similarities that had gotten under his skin, rather than the differences.  He likewise couldn't explain their fisticuffs-to-friendship, not to his mother, certainly, or their easy nonverbal truce.  Things had simply fallen into place, and it was like they'd never been at each other’s throats at all.  Everything had started to go so right with them for once.

He hadn't realized he'd been distant, far away, somewhere out in the stars, until the clink of a plate startled him out of his apparent reverie.  A warm slice of cherry pie and a glass of milk sat in front of him with Chelsea fixing up her own.  He was about to apologize for having spaced out on her when she spoke up instead, still looking teary but appreciative of all that he had said.  "You should eat up.  I won't have you leaving without at least one slice.  It's the least I can do."

"Honestly, ma'am, that isn't necessary."

"Honestly, _sir_ , I have three more pies sitting in my fridge."  She grimaced in embarrassment.  "Baking's my reaction to bad news.  But at least I'll have plenty of dessert for the--"  The word ‘funeral’ didn't want to come out, so she worked around it.  "--ceremony," she decided.  "His uncle's already on his way, and my parents.  Friends, family.  Neighbors.  Fruit pies for everyone."

"...In that case, thank you very much.  I'll even take one for the road, if you don't mind."

"Of course not, Lieutenant."  It was strange, but oddly pleasant, and Malcolm couldn't complain.  Though they remained quiet for a time, eating fresh pie in silence, it wasn't strained.  "You seem like such a nice young man," she eventually said with a more honest smile.  "I hope he got to see that in you.  You know, I bet he would've liked you."

"Well, like I said, we ended up putting our differences aside.  I'd say we liked each other quite well after that."

"Oh no," Chelsea chuckled.  "I mean I think he would've _liked_ you.  You seem his type.  And I would've been perfectly thrilled if he brought you home to meet me."

He wasn't quite sure which of the many emotions cascading hit him first, and it was probably apparent on his face.  She began to clean up the plates, and all he could do was stare like some doe against oncoming traffic.  Something felt caught in his throat, and the words didn't come out quite so steady.  "His type, ma'am?"

"Oh, was that not appropriate to say?  I'm sorry, I don't know why I brought that up.  You just remind me of one of his old boyfriends, and, well--you just make me think of his type.  That was...stupid to say, wasn't it."

"You think we could've been--"  His brain hit a wall, and he felt like he was scrambling to recover.  "A couple?"

"I guess there's no real way to ask someone out on a ship, and he would've been so focused on the mission, I'm sure.  There's probably rules or something against it anyway.  Don't give it a second thought; I just seem to want to say things.  You said you wanted one to go, right?"

It felt like his stomach had dropped out and his heart had gone tumbling after.  Hayes' _type_?  All this time, all the feelings he'd been ignoring, tamping down on, thinking them impossible or irrelevant or just plain idiotic, and that could have _been_ something?  He'd never said--  Neither of them had ever said a thing.  And too focused on the mission or not, it should have come up.  It _should_ have.  Had Hayes ever...felt anything?  Maybe, once they came home, would something have happened?

And now he'd never know.

He took the packaged up pie numbly but graciously, working on autopilot.  Giving a grim smile and thanking her for her hospitality, her saying a few pleasantries in return.  Outside, he made his feet keep walking.  It had been difficult to compartmentalize everything, so little time to grieve, so little time to make sense of the things that had happened, and it felt like that was all finally catching up to him.  Body heavy and lungs on fire from the effort of staying calm, the squeeze of his heart and the burning in his eyes.  But he had to keep going.  He had to go back home to San Francisco, alone.

And with a lifetime of possibilities trailing behind him.


End file.
